


Scales

by orphan_account



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Adrian Tepes is a Smug Bastard, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Male Character, Dragons, Dragons are Elritch Horrors, Gen, Half-Vampires, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Magic sucks, Medical Inaccuracies, Medieval Medicine, Modern Character, Original Character(s), PTSD, Period-Typical Racism, Platonic Cuddling, PoC character, Prophecy, Protective Trevor, Psychological Torture, Sypha Is Very Tired of Their Shit, Trevor Belmont Is A Little Shit, selective mutism, very dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22349644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Magic is about balance, intent. It is the working between the two, the delicate weaving of spellwork and rules. For some, they don't need these rules. For others, not so much.Either way, Chris thinks this is a load of bullshit, because, you know, magic doesn't exist, and this is just a really long, horrible nightmare that isn't actually real.So fuck you, ancient magician guys.
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades/Grant Danasty, Dracula Vlad Tepes | Mathias Cronqvist/Lisa
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. A Start

_Soft-Mourning-Mother-_ _Loving-Friend_ sighed, stretching her wings to the best of her ability, straining against the scales that bound her. Energy pulsed around _Harsh-Leader-Gentle-Friend_ , unbound as he peered into timelines with many eyes, shifting and pulsing like molten magma, only faster and harsher, so fast that a human eye could not see it.

 _Soft-Mourning-Mother-Loving-Friend_ was unsettled. They did not involve hatch-lings in their affairs, much less one so young, not yet to hit his first molting, nor to bend the universe to his will with intent, rather then the convenient luck he believed it to be. 

**_-sorrow-regret-protective-sorry-sorry-regret-forgive me, for I do not deserve it-_ **

Scales were shed as every being lunged for _Harsh-Leader-Gentle-Friend_ , his howls of agony echoing across the universe as his essence was destroyed, torn to shreds by the rage of his fellow dragons, their energies shearing bits of his own apart, scattering them across the universe.

Guilt and sorrow and the sting of betrayal echoed in all of them, and _Soft-Mourning-Mother-Loving-Friend_ called to her champion, her child and friend, the young human who did not get to grow, did not get to mourn. The tendril of energy within his whip whispered, calling him West from the East, to Lupu, where the massacre would take place, and she settled within the scales once more, closing her now singular set of eyes to sleep, just for a bit. Hopefully, he would listen to the singing of old magic in his blood, listen to the whispers of Vampire Killer.She did not wish to see this end in blood and tears for the young one, hence why her eyes were closed. it was easier.

Easier then seeing what the older dragons cruelty had done to the youngest of his line, lost to the ages and the streams of time.


	2. William, The Goat Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Christopher, who is already very fucking confused. Also, worldbuilding!  
> Chris is 15, going on 16. I can firmly say I have never heard of a teenager his age that didn't curse up a storm.  
> Also, He has a pretty bad baby face and he's like 5'2", so people think he's closer to thirteen-fourteen.

I wake up in pain, with dry, cracked lips and dirt coating the inside of my mouth like mud. I pry my eyes open, wiping the sleep from my eyes and rubbing them furiously when dirt gets in them. When the fuck did that happen?

A dirt road stretches as far as I see, dark brown earth filled with potholes cutting through the growth of plants on either side, wild and unfamiliar and definitely not native to Texas. My backpack is two feet away, and I reach for it, dragging the purple bag into my lap. The air bites harshly, sending a chill through me when the wind kicks up, and if I squint, I can see my breath in the air. October in Texas is never this cold, not in the earliest weeks . 

I scratch at the ring of scales around my wrist that travel up my arm, then tug my sleeve down to cover the metallic swath of silver and green . 

What the fuck as going on?

The last thing I remember is walking home from school, and after that, it's a strange blur of _something_.

The only thing that comes to mind is the nauseating sensation of being wrenched to the side, forwards, backwards, up and down all at once. When I close my eyes to recall the memory, a swirl of colors dance behind my eyes, psychedelic swirls of reds and greens. The memory slips away, like sand between my fingers, and no matter how hard I try, I can't get it back.

Jesus, was I on heroine? Heroine did that right? Shit, I don't know what drugs did what.

There are noises coming up behind me, heavy, rhythmic thumps and high pitched squeaks that are strangely familiar but weirdly impossible to place, like I'd heard them before but never enough times to recognize the sound immediately.I stand up, brushing the dirt off my jeans, and swing my bag onto my back. I squint when I see a horse and buggy, being steered by a squinting man with an eyepatch. Maybe he was Mormon...?

The closer he gets, the more I realized, he is definitely _not_ Morman. Or Amish, or any belief system that I knew of. 

He has a heavy cloak on his shoulders, black with an _iron_ clasp, which I'd never seen before on anyone. Even Renaissance cos-players used steel or something a bit more hardy, since iron rusted easily. His shirt underneath is dirty, and maybe it could have been white at one point, but now it was just a nasty shade of yellow with streaks of dirt. Also there are goats in the back of the wagon, which I never seen, ever. The only goat I've seen in real life was the one at the petting zoo when I was like four or five. (It was a mean thing, on old billy that hurled me over the fence to the petting zoo while completely ignoring other children, and bashing his head into the fence while I bawled. The handler had been confused, since apparently, he was very patient for a goat.) 

It didn't really matter whether he had poor hygiene or not, though. I just needed to get to civilization.

"Hey! Hey, wait!" I sprint down the road to meet him in the middle, and he pulls the horses to a stop. 

"Can I help you, boy?"

He spits out the words like they taste bitter, like they're poison. I feel a flash of hurt, for a second, before I realize that he is probably a murderer. Well, shit, here we go. 

"i'm not sure where I am? Can you tell me? Please?"

I keep my voice soft, widening my eyes just slightly as I mentally begged for him to believe me. I wasn't lying, not exactly, but I was playing up the pathetic act to win a few sympathy points. Worked with my teachers, and I'm pretty sure Mrs. Schiable had a stone heart. He squints at me, and groans, an irritated noise in the back of his throat, before he glares at me. 

"Christ, kid, enough with the act. Get the hell up here." He motioned to the seat next to him, and I scramble up. The goats promptly lose their minds, bleating in distress and tugging on the coarse rope desperately,eyes wild and frightened. I glare at them,

_-silence, stillness, calm-_

and they suddenly go quiet, eyeing me distrustfully, and tugging on their ropes gently, testing the reach. He squints at me and grumbles quietly, but I can't catch what he says.

"We're on the road to the village of Turgoviste. They're holding a festival there. "

He flicked the reins, and the horses started back up slowly, before going at a brisk walk that jerked me back and forth and nearly threw me out the fucking buggy. He didn't seem to be having to much trouble. 

"What's the festival for?" 

"A year ago we burned a witch at the stake."

What. The. Fuck.

"I don't see how that would warrant a celebration, much less a _festival."_ He glares at me sharply, poison green eyes sharp and mean. He's scowling, and I want to bite my tongue off so i don't end up getting murdered. Still, I refuse to back down. Because, apparently, people in Turgoviste were in the fucking Dark Ages, during the goddamn inquisition. The thought of this innocent woman being murdered because of misogynistic white men pissed me off. 

He scowls, and I glare. Neither of us move.

He looks away first, and I smirk.

"The wise woman informed the church of her witchcraft, and she was burned at the stake. After, the entire village saw a vision of a devil wreathed in flames, promising death to the entire village in a year for burning his wife. It has been one year, and we're still here. The Arch-Bishop of Wallachia is arriving in the evening, so I'm hoping to get my goats blessed for a good year."

That... that was a lot to unpack, right there.

The _entire_ village saw the same vision? Or hallucination? Or whatever the fuck it was? That didn't make any sense, like at all. And, blessing his goats? Arch-Bishop? I'd never been very reigous, something that irritated my abuelita to no end, but even she wouldn't take a mans word on witchcraft, and she was a superstitious as they came. This sounded like the dialogue of a middle earth fanfic. And even if the vision or whatever was legit, who'd bone the devil? WHO'D BONE THE DEVIL?!?!

Also, why are they celebrating an (alleged) demon vision, promising death and destruction and all that jazz? Why didn't they move if they were so superstitious? Why didn't they grab their kids and get the hell outta town?

This was probably the weirdest dream I'd ever had, ever.

"I don't understand why ya'll didn't just...leave, though? I mean, if the devil threatened me and my family, or whatever, then I'd leave." 

"Listen, kid, I don't make the rules. Honestly, I just want to make a livelihood, and get home. This'll help, since there's been wolf attacks in the nearby village."

He says this like it's a fact of life, like an old man's word will definitely keep his goats from being eaten by wolves and I don't see the point in correcting him. If he wanted to be an ignorant fuck, that wasn't my problem. An uncomfortable silence falls, and I stare at the seat. It wasn't very well-made, with rough hewn planks that desperately needed sanding, and rusty iron nails that stuck out dangerously. Those were a tetanus shot waiting to happen, fucking hell. The only thing preventing both of us from getting an ass full of splinters was a green wool blanket, streaked with grime.

Not to mention the smell. God, the smell. My traveling companion smelled like blood, urine, goat and hay. The horses reeked and I'm pretty sure that blanket was diseased. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. i don't know what I expected, since he didn't exactly look like the cleanliest guy, but I sure didn't expect it to hit quite so hard. 

"So how did a noble's servant end up at the side of the road?"

I jerk, my fingers twitching in irritation, before i flash him a sheepish smile. Probably better to play along then to disagree, and I wasn't working to be an actor for nothing.

( I could ignore it, just for a bit.)

"Well, I don't know, really. I just.. woke up here. i think it is some form of transit amnesia? I could have gotten a concussion, but I don't really feel all that nauseous."

I rake my fingers through my hair anxiously, before pulling it back into a low ponytail on the nape of my neck. It was pretty long, for a guy's hair, auburn red and silky smooth. I liked it. 

"Transit amnesia? Never heard of that one." He looks even more suspicious, and I tilt my head.

"Just a particular type of amnesia that causes recent memory loss. It can be caused by lots of things, like concussions or strokes. I think the term was coined by a professor at the University of New York? I can't remember."

"What the fuck are the British doing naming a city after a different city?"

* * *

I discover four things on the way to Turgoviste.

One, goat guys name is William. He has three daughters, two sons and dead wife. ( I think he killed her, but that's not my business. ) He raises goats, is very superstitious and a devout Catholic to the point it's actually scary. Not that there was anything wrong with Catholicism, my favorite history teacher was catholic, but his brand of devotion bordered less on religion and more on _fucking crazy_. 

Two, William has never once, not a single god damn time in his life, heard of Texas. Or New York. Or **North America**. Which, yeah, says a lot about the situation in general. 

Three, the items in my bag have been mysteriously replaced with other items, some of which i have no clue how they got in there. there's my mp3 player, which William eyes like it's a snake about to bite him, a switchblade that I definitely did not have in there before, a change of clothes and a thick hoodie, as well as my psychology textbook and a silver cross where there was a gold one, identical down to the dent that my little sister teethed into it. There's also a bag of lemon drops, and a roll of crackers. There's enough space in my bag for more.

And four, the likelihood this was a dream was slipping through my hands like water. My mp3 player works fine, lighting up with clear text, the words in my books are clear and entirely there, whole sentences rather then fragments, and when one of the goats breaks free and knocks me out of the buggy, do not wake up like every other dream I've had, ever. Dreams don't work like that. If you get hurt in a dream, _you wake up for God's sake._

So while I deal with that existential crisis, I wave William goodbye, and walk into Turgoviste. 

I thought village would be an understatement, or some sort of analogy in terms of technology, or something along those lines. Not a literal village

But, no, it's definitely a fucking village. The population was, maybe, two hundred or so, if I felt like being generous. Children ran back and forth, and I nearly tripped over a three year old being chased by their older brother, blonde hair flying behind them. The houses all look like they were built by hand, some of them thatched and wooden while the majority were stone and wood, heavy blocks of cobblestone that varied in size. They have windows, but they're warped and cloudy and I think the only thing you'd see was whether it was day or night. I follow the sea of people, all flowing toward the town square, where stalls sold different merchandise.

For a moment, I felt suspended in time, at the foot of a massive church that shouldn't exist, in a market that was like one in a novel, with people flowing around me, like a stone in a river.

"I've never seen one stand in the presence of the House of God, and look so intimidated."

I feel dread settle in my stomach. Nothing good can come from that voice, and I am very aware of that fact.


	3. Catholicism is Not Bigotry, Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the Bishop of Turgoviste.  
> It gets rough

The man next to me was wearing priest's robes, and they didn't suit him at all.

He didn't look like Father Carlos, the (pun not intended) fatherly man with a warm smile I met when my family dragged me to mass, or Pastor David, the young youth group leader I met at Leah's Church, whose eyes were too old for his body, but very, very kind and warm. He didn't look like a man of God, Catholic or Baptist or Lutheran or otherwise.

He looked mean and cold and _cruel_. He had harsh frown lines in the wrinkles of his face, and a severe gaze, his grey (grey? black? They were dark, and empty, and could have been very nice eyes) like little chips of ice peering out from his schlera. his lips were curled up in a sneer, and I forced my hands to stay relaxed at my sides, despite the instantaneous urge to slug him right across the jaw.

Honestly, everything about him turned my fight or flight instincts to _fight_. He looked like everything wrong with, well, everyone. 

I didn't, though. I still didn't know what was going on, so that would probably be the worst possible decision I could make. 

Instead, I forced a polite smile onto my face, trying not to make it seem too rude or strained. I thought back to when I played Mr. Tumnus in the school play, and slipped myself back into the role. Quiet and polite and nervous, easy to sympathize with and easy to love. 

It made me feel manipulative, and gross, because normally I would bare my teeth at him with a smart ass remark, let him know what's what. But for some reason, this man terrified me nearly as much as he _pissed me off_. I was pretty fucking angry, and nearly as scared.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said. Can you repeat that?" 

He huffed, irritation flashing across his features and I had to resist the urge to punch him in the face. I asked for you to repeat a question, sir, not for you to build Noah's ark. 

"I merely remarked that it is very odd for a noble's servant accustomed to traveling to seem so intimidated before the House of God."

I wonder how far I can push him before he snaps. How thin his patience is. Considering he looks like the type of guy that would kick a puppy, not far enough. 

"Who said I was a servant?" I ask slowly, eyeing his reaction. He looks positively scandalized. 

(I was very aware of why they thought I was a servant, and the blatant racism and bigotry made me bitter and angry. This was the period of serfdom and racism and general shitty situations for everyone except for the nobles and the church. Part of me bled for all the suffering here.)

"You don't mean to imply that you're nobility, it's heresy!"

"Like a woman owing land?" 

I didn't really understand what was going on. The possibility of this being a dream was long gone, like wisps of fog after the sun rises, but my brain blatantly refused this situation as real. But even if this was a dream, or a weird coma, or some sort of drug based bullshit, I refused to not speak up for a woman that was brave enough to be different, when I was scared to wear my favorite eyeliner to school.

They killed her because she was brave, and they were fucking cowards.

He obviously didn't expect that. He turns sharply to face me, only to jerk in surprise when he sees my glare. I like to think he got scared, but honestly, his narcissism was probably so bad he was just surprised someone disagreed with him. His face is a twisted mixture of rage, shock and superiority. If I look closely, I can see the telltale signs of _fucking crazy_.

"Lisa Tepes was a witch, and served her punishment before God!" He hisses, the words escaping past grit teeth. He grabs at me sleeve and he looks almost scared for a second, but it's gone before I can figure out why.

"She was the woman you burned a year ago? Why'd you mention her specifically, when I _know_ you've killed more innocent women then just one?" I challenge, stepping closer to glare up at him. He's a few inches taller then me, and he positively _looms,_ blacking out the setting sun, which casts a demonic light on his face. He looks desperate.

I hate him for the murder of Lisa Tepes. I'd never been fond of murderers.

"What is so terrifying about her name that whenever someone challenges you, you immediately feel the urge to defend your decision? Which led to murder,might I add."

I rip my arm out of his grip, glaring. My sleeve catches on one of his ridiculous rings.

Neither of us move, and the air between us crackles with tension. His lip curls up, just a bit more, and he looks schools his expression, confidence and smug superiority radiating off him when he straighten. His eyes flick down, then widen, it's like a switch had been flipped and he looks positively disgusted.

"Of course a _demon_ like yourself would defend a witch." 

He stepped away from me, and I noticed that a crowd had gathered, forming a loose circle around us. Two priests, priests not bishops, I was wrong about the robes, were in the front, watching us warily. A woman shifted from foot to foot, half-hidden behind one of the burly priests , holding a baby in her arms as she gazed on, fear barely hidden in her eyes.She wasn't looking at the Bishop.

She was looking at me. She was afraid of me.

I turned my head, and felt my heart stutter, before setting a staccato beat, each _ba-bum_ reverberating around in my chest. 

Glimmering in the sunlight was the smallest patch of scale, like fresh fallen snow against my skin, curling around my collarbone. That's what the Bishop saw, that's what made him so satisfied.

I was aware that people were scared of things that were different. My mother drove the concept into me and my siblings heads, made sure me and Anijah protected Danial and Angelina, who were too young to understand. We were aware that most children didn't have shimmery scales, that covered our backs and arms and legs, a wonderful mix of colors that were unique to each of us. There were doctors appointments, test, blood drawn and pills. We learned to cover our arms, wear tight shirts that were in no danger of slipping, cake makeup onto the scales so they didn't show.

I was aware that, right now, the Bishop had the winning edge.

He had the _crowd_.

The crowd currently edging closer as the Bishop preached about heaven and hell, the crowd that stirred restlessly. The crowd that eyes me in fear, shifting so the women were hidden behind the men, who gripped at shovels and trowels and pickaxes. I remembered, suddenly, the fire drill in my elementary school, when a kid pulled the fire alarm. Two kids were knocked over, one with a concussion and another with a broken arm, while the others scattered like rats, sprinting for exits in a panic. They were scared, like these people.

A scared crowd was a dangerous crowd.

A rock clattered at my feet, and like a dam breaking, a flood of angry roars and jeers sprang forth. 

"Demon! Go back to the hole you crawled out of!"

Another rock, this one barely missing my head. The crowd was pressing forward now.

Oh god, I'm about to be torn apart by an angry mob.

_\- protect me, protect me, keep me safe-_

More rocks, and bottles, and someone through a brick, flew through the air. None of them hit me, instead swerving mid-air back into the crowd, striking one of the priests in the shoulder.

They didn't take very kindly to that. 

The mob roared, different voices clamoring over each other so that I could barely hear the words, and surge forward, stopping at some invisible barrier, five feet away in all directions. They snarl and scream, and I hear the Bishops voice over the rest, ranting a raving about demons and witches and tests from God. Terror and rage are a toxic mixture, curling heavy in my gut while singing in my blood, preparing me to fight. My mouth is dry and my hands are clammy, and my a dull haze threatens my vision. I see only movement, and fists raised, and angry, angry faces contorted into something demonic, the horrifying effects of mob mentality. 

They need to leave.

I need to make them leave. 

I don't know how.

I need to make them leave, I need safety.

I'm protecting myself. 

My eyes close, and I sigh, releasing a shuddering breath of tension.

The first man breaks through the barrier with a cry, a pick axe raised to cleave through my skull.

I _reach_ and it's there.

My eyes open.

- _away, away, send them away, all of them away_ -

Tendrils is mist, as fast as a striking rattlesnake, send every person flying through the air, and I hear someone's head send a spine chilling crack on the stones of the square. My scales feel warm, like I'd been sunning for hours on end, and I exhaled in relief.

No one moves as I walk past the Bishop, even though they can, even though I'm not stopping them. 

I tilt my head at the supposed man of God, a mean little smirk on my face.

"You know what? I think that you need a holy-ass vibe check. Jesus wouldn't approve of your bullshit, sir."

No one stops me when I walk out of the square, not even a spluttering, red faced Bishop.

* * *

Nearly dying sucks, like a lot. And it wasn't even the whole ordeal that sucked ass, but the aftermath. I'm jittery and paranoid and my hands tremble, and at one point I nearly cried when a battered tabby cat knocked over a trash pile, startling the poor thing with my (very manly) yelp. 

After my dramatic exit in the square, which I feel and just the _right_ amount of drama and class, I took to the ally ways, looking for a place to hole up for a while.

A safe place to have a crisis and take a nap sounds really, really nice. As well as some food. And a restroom with indoor plumbing.

Please, with indoor plumbing.

Eventually I find a house that looks suitably abandoned, with a piece of parchment nailed to the front door, and break in, crawling through a window since the hinges on the door are so rusted I can't open it without hearing the shrieks that could probably outdo the ones in purgatory.

The inside is just as trashed as the outside, with broken glass and torn furniture, and there's a cellar. I close the trap door behind me and slump to the ground.

My little cross is taken out and cradled in my hand, tears slipping from my eyes as I stared at the dent.

God, what the fuck was going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bishop:  
> Christopher: excuse me sir, your vibes are RANCID


End file.
